


DADimir Trutin

by theabnormallifeofateenfangirl



Category: Donald Trump - Fandom, Politics - Fandom, Vladimir Putin - Fandom
Genre: America, Lust, M/M, Russia, USA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6154530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theabnormallifeofateenfangirl/pseuds/theabnormallifeofateenfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Donald Trump/Vladimir Putin story of lust and love, struggling through modern day politics, trying to create a new world... It's early 2017 and Trump has just been instated as President, but what will he do when he has to constantly come face to face with his lover...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Saucy Summit

**Author's Note:**

> An introduction to what will be a compelling love story that will change lives around the globe.

That orangey tan, exuberating his cheeking glow. Those thin lips, which sang the rhymes of decades to come. Down the neck. Reaching the collar. Putin raked his lustful eyes over the newly instated president, so very sensual. The summit droned on and on, but all Putin could think was what he could be doing instead.

As Trump yelled his hopes and dreams for America, his voice cracked. Putin was sitting just opposite him, eyes enticing, sucking and chewing a pen. Their gazes crossed, an epiphany struck; they both wanted this. Shuffling his legs nervously, Putin licked his lips, paying special attention to the corners, all the while concentrating on the perfectly curved wrinkles that mounted his desired ones face. Everyone else was oblivious to the scandalous happenings.

Silence echoed throughout the oversized room, pulling Putin out of his mind and into reality, able to catch a quick glimpse at Trumps well rounded buttocks. If only he could reach and give them a little sque… No! Putin frantically shook his head, trying to make himself think straight. If only it was that easy. A cute giggle escaped Trumps lusciously plain mouth, sending a weird sensation to the front of Putin’s trousers.

He rushed to tuck the obscenely large member, which was so obviously protruding through the thin fabric, under his thick, black, leather belt. It was his turn to speak, but all he could think was of his throbbing stick, trapped, with the man of dreams right in front of him. This was worse than the torture camp he supported in Chechnya! But as he walked up to the platform he realised where he was and the importance of this summit, joining Russia and America together, and tried to pull himself together.

Unfortunately once Putin was on the podium all he could see was the stern yet enticing face of Trump, which just added to his big problem. Each word of the proposal to make Russia and America great again was stuttered, as each breath slowed and deepened to a halt. Steadily growing red in the face, Putin gasped for air as if he had just been suffocating, it was such a relief but also quite arousing. He rushed through the points and dismissed the summit, rushing to get out of the increasingly steamy room.  


Thighs rubbing together with each step, Trump followed.


	2. The Erotic Encounter

Footsteps echo in haste; brain unable to focus. Putin entered the first empty room he came across, a newly refurbished conference room which had a distinct leathery smell. Mmmh, tasty! Looking down at his trousers, reminded his mind of the exceedingly awkward complication. A clacking in the near distance sent a fearful shock wave through Putin’s toned body, resulting in an instinctive rush to close the door. Hands dripping of sweat and shaking he slammed to door right into the hands of Trump. An amazed gasp slipped from between Putin’s paled lips, his eyes glazing over the God-like creature that stood before him. 

“What a dilemma you got yourself into,” a deep, self-satisfied voice whispered into Putin’s ear, so close. So close, he could feel Trumps sweetly sour breath stick to his moistened skin and sense the carnal vibes which enveloped them both. Trump stepped back expectantly, staring down Putin with his eyes sparkling, smothered with innocence yet lustful at the same time. All Putin could gather in response was a chocked squeak and moving to allow room for his desired to pass.

Bam. The door was slung shut and a spacious laugh melted into a groan, which burned to suggestive silence. Without another murmur or movement they had come across an agreement. Their mutual craving for one another led to an instantaneous lack of attire, until they were face to face and down to their undergarments. Putin looked up at Trump, his sweetly wrinkled face, framed by a strong jaw, neck outstretched and eyes fixated on one thing.

“NO!” Trump yelled as he swerved away from Putin’s nicely puckered lips. Putin was taken aback, the thought of rejection, just as he was so near to his fantasies. Then, glancing up at Trump he saw the annoyed look his father used to give him whenever he did something unsatisfactory. The memories poured out as if a mental dam had been knocked down.

“Sorry Daddy,” he whimpered, not intending for the other man to hear. Tears began to roll down the plump, fragile cheeks, leaving a remnant trail of the salty which was met by a rough thumb. He looked up to see the aged eyes calm and a soft smirk imprinted on his oily face. Putin breathed in preparing to speak, to apologise, obviously embarrassed as it was painted red on his face. “I don’t kno-“.

“Don’t talk unless Daddy says you can,” Trump’s voice louder and more authoritative cut off Putin, whom complied without complaint. In fact he found it quite a relief for Trump to take control like this, making him safe yet vulnerable and the problem in his pants growing painfully larger. Trump seized the member a rubbed making Putin exhale gleefully and rutting, wanting more and more.

A sound from the other side of the room triggered, a creaking of the door, and a silhouette frozen along with the two exposed men. The dark figure coughed and walked into the centre of the room, revealing that it was no other than Bernie Sanders! He coughed to draw attention, not even flinching as the guilty men rushed to dress themselves, messily and flustered. 

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sanders began, with a light air to his voice, quite amused at the ungainly situation. “You did seem to be having a bit of a moment during the summit,” as he spoke he glimpsed at Putin, shaking his head a little, a discreet smile sneaking onto his face. As he peeked at Trump his face stonewalled, the President did not look amused, and the rage radiated off of him.

“Yes, Sanders, what is it that you wanted?” Trump ricocheted, trying to act as composed as possible, but a little nervous sweat was visible and concern was developing in his mind. Consuming his brain, thoughts of what Sanders would do, would say; could do, could say. The sense was overwhelming and Sanders knew that he was in control.


	3. Subduing Sanders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trump needs to ensure Bernie will keep quiet about what he saw...

Eyes hidden beneath the thick glare of Sanders’ glasses, creating an ominous sensation, which struck through the lovers; deer caught in headlights. Squirming like a can of worms under the heat, Trump’s reddened face creased, adding years of wisdom to his appearance. He knew he had been caught out, his hypocrisy could cause for his ‘embarrassing’ secret to erupt into public knowledge, turning his supporters against him; having openly opposed homosexual rights. Becoming jittery, mentally and physically, Trump started shaking; searching the room for an escape.

A fuzzy feeling traced through Trump’s body as a clammy palm rubbed across his oily forearm, making his pulse faster and breaths shallower. Putin’s loving stare met with the half-fearful Trump, hearts missing a beat in unison. A crass cough shattered the moment into pieces, reducing to them to the view of a sly grin sculpted into Sanders’ face. He was a serious problem.

“What do you want? Sanders.” Trump grunted through his gritted teeth, trying not to attack, using his cat-like reflexes. Trump waited in the obnoxiously loud silence for a reply. However, Sanders made no movement, no demand; he just continued to grin, which made Putin very uncomfortable. Shifting from leg to leg, it was obvious something was up, forcing everyone’s attention onto Putin who was salted in a light blush. Ready to eat. His veiny hands shaking, in front of his trousers, the tension in the room was just too much to handle.

“Daddy knows, and you are safe, my Kitten.” Trump whispered to his submissive lover, trying to defuse the situation, and ensure he gets something sweet later. Putin sniffled, inhaling the rotten breath blown in his direction. Although he seemed fixated on the ground he nodded his head a little and a scratchy whine alleviates from his thick throat. Trump was satisfied with this result, and proceeded to further confront Sanders. Now his insolent confidence had returned.

Pushing his plaything to the side, he not-so-cautiously approached the much older yet firmer man, gently placing his chunky hand on Sanders’ rounded shoulder. Ever so slightly rubbing it. Tasty! Unnerving Sanders was much simpler than Trump had thought it would be at first, even with knowledge of the rumours. Seeing how Bernie was putty in his hands made this all the more enjoyable and scandalous.

“Tr-Trump! You... Can stop?” Sanders wasn't sure if it was a question he was asking or an invitation for more, either way it does- SLAP. Before Sanders could finish his train of thought a five pronged mark appeared on his face, after quite a painful ordeal. Putin really had a hard hand, perfect for sassy slaps of revenge.

All the while Sanders and Putin were making threatening looks at one another Trump was astounded, he didn't realise how deep Putin had fallen for him. It was an enormous turn on. Trump grabbed his kitten by the wrist then turned him around. While Putin struggled to break free a massive whoop landed on his Russian’s firm arse cheeks, which turned into an extensive spanking session, resulting in Putin calming down and taking his orders.

“Naughty Kitten! Did Daddy say you could do that? Now kneel on the ground and apologise.” Trump had no sense of love in his voice, just his power hungry ring, which made even the strongest Russian fall weak. Whimpering, Putin hit the ground, snot trailing from his nose and eyes red with tears. He didn't like it when Daddy got angry at him, all he wanted was to make Daddy proud. So when Trump paced forward and traced the recently scarred facial tissue besmirching Sanders, Putin knelt there and bared it, as it was the only way he could get his lover to forgive him. Trump had grasped all control from both Putin and Bernie, reducing them to nothing more than dolls he could play with.

“This stays between us,” Trump told Sanders, cheek to cheek, before releasing the death grip he had acquired on the older man’s jaw. Sanders fell to his knees, joining Putin, just another toy for Trump to break.


	4. Zesty Zodiac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look back at Bernie's seemingly sordid past...

The salty stench of sweat swept through the recently diffused room, flowing up Trump’s large nostrils. Smirk painted on face; eyes excruciatingly planted on the shine of Bernie’s scalp. Trump knew the truth and was going to recite it in the most painful way possible; Putin’s crispy ears a-listening. Fidgeting under the heat, heart racing, appearing more like a tomato every second, Bernie exploded and hulk smashed the wall next to him. The other two men stared at him while he wondered how much Trump really knew.

“No point executing an ocular pat down on me, ol’ Donny boy!” Bernie hectically howled, trying to make Trump overlook the superior advantage he has over Bernie. Trump smiled, yellowing teeth acting like neon glow sticks. Not the response Sanders expected. “You remember the good ol’ day’s right?!” Sanders continued trying to save himself from the possible future torture, grasping at already broken straws; eliciting a gleeful groan from Trump. Licking his lips, Trump prepared for his win.

“Calm yourself, your jitters are agitating me and your manipulation skills are very poor,” Trump angrily spat, whilst glazing over his sweet, submissive Putin; seemingly out of place. “Daddy will explain all to you, Kitten.” Drawling out his words as long as possible, Trump compelled Putin to hold onto every syllable, resulting in a hurried nod from his beloved. 

The room went blank inside Sanders’ mind, only hearing echoing from the two men across from him; darkly knowing this could end his political career. A misunderstanding. A terrible one, but still a misunderstanding. He never meant to fall in love. Strapping shoulders, met with a thick neck, carving into a timeless face; his expressions unreadable. The mystery drew him closer until he finally took control of his actions and went for it.

Late December 1968 Bernie burst into the car belonging to the apple of his eye, only to see him wrestling his snake. A dilemma occurred, whether to join or resist but who could do the latter with such a beefcake. For what seemed like hours they were at it, like a couple of rabbits. So very sensual. This was no longer just attraction, Bernie knew he was being sweetened, but too wrapped up with his pleasure to do anything about it.

The evening was peaceful, Bernie lay atop his newfound love as the wind clattered against the window. Without a warning, the other man sat up, hushing Sanders in the process; a murmur of voices travelled through the elsewise deserted street. His formerly absent yet beautiful lustrous eyes were grounded as they were filled with blood. As he stepped out the car six shots were fired. Two bodies laid motionless. A river of red glistened, reflecting the dull street lamps glow. 

Bernie reclined in the red leather seat and contemplated his next move. Although a murder had taken place his lover was not guilty; he looked the other way. As the night drew to an end, the face of his lover returned and Bernie realised it was to protect them both.

He never meant to fall in love with a murderer. He never meant to fall in love with Ted Cruz, the Zodiac Killer.


	5. The Persistent Problem

A sudden clap silence startled the vulnerable Sanders, making him tilt his angular head towards a shocked Putin. Trump had done it; told the most important man in Russia of his lover’s misdeeds. Berning up, Sanders fiddled with a loose thread on the sleeve of his suit, desperately trying to think of an adequate excuse to make a sharp leave. Sanders, once the superior being, degraded to a narrative passed from president to politician. If anyone else comes to this knowledge it will be overwhelming, it was bad enough Hillary Clit had been blackmailing him since the 1990s.

A squeaky movement of a leather shoe across the rubbery floor, the foot belonging to a chunky leg, connecting to Trump’s nicely rounded torso. A couple of supposed laughs were spat out of his slimy mouth, obviously there was something he was bursting to spill, increasing the already painful tensions in the room.

“How is Cruz nowadays?” Trump mocked, a sick smirk plastered on his face, riling up Sanders whom was gritting his teeth. Putin observed that the situation was only intensifying, Trump a sexy beast; Bernie a not-so-innocent yet tiny bird, easy prey. Instead of a reply, a whimper grunt sounded from Sanders’ thin lips. Trump had hit a nerve.


	6. Appeasing Arguments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie doesn't know what to do now his deepest secret has come out, forcing him to take immediate action. Will his impulsive behaviour claim its result???

Trump’s dry thumb wiped away pin-sized lumps of sweat, falling over the side of Sanders’ head, creating a mellow plop with every drop, deeply echoing the tense mood. All eyes were tentatively focused on Bernie. No movement, but a quiet hum could be detected because of the thoughts trying to be processed. However, being put on the spot was not something Bernie was used to. The final straw was a glare from Putin, conveying just what people will think of him once they find out all the zodiac killings were because of him. Innocent lives.

To break the intensity Sanders let out a half-arsed cough, turned throat clearing, while making an effort to establish eye-contact with Trump. Unfortunately an attempt of asserting dominance on a Daddy never works, especially as Bernie is nothing more than a washed out otter! Instead Trump re-gained control of the situation and began to undress Sanders’ body and mind with nothing more than the pool of blue which seemed so frighteningly cold.

“Why did Hillary not take this further!?” Trump demanded, even though he already knew the answer, humiliation was the name of the game. In response Bernie took a giant gulp making his Adam’s apple ounce and face squint. Humph. Trump was not going to stop his impending line of fire. Trump knew. Unbeknownst to Putin, who was entirely baffled by the entire situation and how his lover already was so knowledgeable.

Seconds grew longer, reaching wits end and reducing Sanders to twinge with every word. Bernie had known of Hillary Clit’s infidelity and used that against her, so she would be in a tie if anything came out about the slight case of multiple murders. But that can’t have been all, seeing as when the truth of Hillary’s personal life hit the public, there was another string being played. That’s what Trump wanted to know. Manipulation, seduction, arguing. Time and time again, the digging led to a dead end, meaning only one thing – the information must be juicy. Each NO only lead to greater desire. Anyway, to Trump, no means yes.

Putin’s impatience began to bare its flame, a sigh to a stomp, exclamations of fowl words to body shakes forced by anger. All he wanted was his Senpai to notice him. Acknowledgement is what he got, but not the good kind. That jolt of eye-contact could only mean one thing, he was going to get spanked later for being such a naughty kitten! 

Bernie recognised the tension between them, thinking he could play it to his advantage, pulled out the files of bad things Putin has been involved in. A smug smile was printed on his face, with a mixture astonishment and anger from Trump, whom had just threatened to do unspeakable things to Bernie’s balls. A cloud of confusion was lifted as Bernie prepared to speak, straightening his clothes and planting a sly look on his face.

“Trump, Trump, Trump,” Bernie began, bathed in confidence with a rather annoying ring in the tone. “You should really be careful,” he paused to take a look at his enemy’s faces, “or your little lover boy will be in more trouble than when the Panama Papers were leaked.” At that moment, any trace of good intention or happiness was wiped from the two men’s faces and replaced by narrowed eyes, a declaration of war.

Putin began to tremble. What did Sanders know? He looked around hoping to catch a silent conversation with Trump, but instead could see the other man deep in thought, processing what Bernie had just imposed. A clammy hand rubbed on Putin’s lower back, rested there and then gave him a nudge. The signal he had been waiting for.

A speedy step forward, followed by the sound of hard skin on skin and a collateral fall. Bernie had lost this battle.


	7. Concerning Conspiracies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about Trump is revealed...

Surprise rang in Bernie’s ears, as the right side of his face was stinging. Tracing the area with his nimble fingers and raising his head, revealing glossy eyes and a shock-white face. Putin’s dry, flat palm had crushed Bernie’s baby soft skin; the scene had paused. 

Breaking the silence, Trump let out a short but amused huff, thinking that letting his kitten lose, claws out, would make him superior. However, Bernie didn’t so much as flinch, instead tensing his jaw, almost unable to hold in the knowledge.

“You should really think about how much you actually know. Before you can no longer go back,” Sanders grimaced, a deadly serious look clouding his face. “There are some things even you cannot begin to grasp the concept of.” Sanders deadpanned, heating the room around him with only his eyes, yet remaining as cool as a cucumber. Maybe Sanders was not as innocent as he seemed.

Each word drawled out, as if wanting to crawl back down Sanders’ venomous throat, taking an eternity for a sentence to form. Paining Putin’s delicate ears, to hear of the plan that would destroy his lover. Trump. Paralysed in confusion and anger, the only two mental states he had truly mastered. Wondering how long this had been planned? How long must he wait for it to happen? How long will he be a pig ready for slaughter?

Syllable after syllable, a stabbing in the chest and brain, however small it may be. It has to be lies, if not the trap was set and like a bear he fell for it. Ted Cruz and Bernie Sanders, the mastermind duo whom had thought of every possible situation. Ted Cruz the Zodiac Killer was going to assassinate him… Trump… how…? Why…?

From the early rise Trump’s short-lived reign as a presidential candidate, the millions were guided by secret government officials. Leading a social experiment to end all social experiments. ‘TRUMP’ was the name. Sanders had personally picked the young Trump from a selection of bigoted boys, the perfect candidate it seemed. Then priming and pruning the young lad, ensuring he got his small loan of a million dollars, to waste and develop a streak of egotism and superiority.

Years later he was subtly led to run for president, in which the government played a major role. Although it took many freedoms and rights back twenty years, it was working, as supporters gathered and rallied, hating anything or anyone different to them. Next step: Election. It was rigged, plain and simple, but how else would Trump win, these things had to be done.

Everything according to plan. The proud Trump supporters advertising how they had always agreed with him, the worst mixture of all possible attributes. The government knew. The government knew that these people needed to be eradicated. That part was up to Cruz!


	8. Darling Daddy

The newly received information was like stepping on a puppy, repeatedly with much force. All Trump could respond with was a foul-smelling huff, hitching his tight suit trousers higher and swanning out of the room; head held high. Fluttery footsteps followed him, as Putin tried to keep up with his lover, all the while trying to soothe him, fanning his ego even more. As they walked hurriedly and impatiently down the echoing corridor the world seemed to fade around them, collapsing till the wall of fresh air hit them, out into the early night. Plenty of time for some mischief!

“Get in, Kitten.” Trump’s abruptness pulled an aroused breath from Putin, as he was shoved into the backseat, helpless and vulnerable. Just how Daddy likes it. A click of the eyes, like a trigger on a gun, sent a shot through both of their bodies, resulting in sudden nudity. Skin on skin. Steamy. Love.

“Da-aa-dd-dy!” Putin whimpered, moaning between each gasp of air, sweet release and pleasure that only Trump could bring him. They were together; united. As one. That would never change, their loyalties lay deeper than possible assassination. But Trump wasn’t worried, he had connections with the New World Order. Sanders was the one who didn’t know what he had got himself into.


	9. Most Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth of Trump is revealed...

Birds tweeted as they abruptly awoke tired households full of grumpy people, residing in their lowly mansions with staff attending to their every need. The Trump estate, filled with workers, servants to their master, who was still asleep after a busy night. Most mornings were like this. Plain, simple, finally getting rest with his beloved Putin, the end of the nightly performance. 

As Trump spooned Putin’s limp yet dandy body, the submissive one let out a series of cute cat-like yawns, sending shivers down Daddy’s spine. Putin was playing dirty, pushing the buttons he knew all so well. 

“Does my Kitten want more?” Trump moistly whispered into his lover’s ear, although spoken more as a statement than a question. Trump already knew the answer from Putin’s involuntary twitch. At this sign Trump rolled out of bed, clunking on the floor and pranced to his mahogany cupboard, which was handcrafted by children he had disabled personally. A creak open, and a snatch out. A pillowcase appeared in Trump’s rotund hands. Now the fun could really begin.

From the case he pulled out what seemed to be strips of thick, black leather held together by cold metal, which he bound a delighted Putin to the bed with. Next was a dark brown whip, frayed ends from obvious overuse and golden writing on the handle: ‘ENFORCER’. Kinky. Trump was a serious leather Daddy, but also a great documenter. Putin huffed with excitement as he saw Trump pull out the camera, meaning the fun would start soon. 

Most mornings were like this. A fantasy brought to life.


	10. Voluptuous Versitility

The scent of sinful misdeeds violated Trump's nostrils, inundating him with libidinous memories of the torturous pleasures enacted the previous night. Putin, his playful kitten, was still worn out, left to lay in his own moist shame with nothing more than the leather harness to keep him warm as foreign powers took control. Dominated. Domesticated. Orange hand outstretched, Trump stroked his property, glad that he could watch the evidence later. 

Entranced by the majestic moves of the President, Putin purred into the peach tinted, soft stomach of his dreamy dominator. He was intoxicated with the smell of Daddy’s natural, musty, man juice, he wanted to be covered in the scent. Marked forever as a kitten needing protection. Donald’s sweat beaded down his burly body, only making Vlad more impatient. He wanted it all. Every. Last. Drop. Pouncing on his Daddy, no longer the scared kitten but rather a big cat on the prowl, he straddled the obese waistline which was now below his own twink body. Trump’s orange face darkened to red. Was he… blushing? 

The Russian’s revolutionary takeover meant Putin was in control. His first act was to splay the once imposing President onto the brackish bed, forcing him into the sticky stains of his own reign, with no chance of retreat. Bones clicked. Moans evoked. Trump was laid out like a beached whale ready to explode, lathered in his excessive perspiration. Just as Putin liked it.

‘Kitten’ lowered his head, as if to bow in respect of the loss of a leader, touching his luscious lips to the sweaty skin of his ‘Daddy’. Suddenly, he mechanically extended his tongue, till the taste of sodium chloride tingled on his delicate mouth organ. Internally Putin groaned. Nothing could ever be as great as the tantalising taste of lover, his ‘Daddy’…? Water broke through Putin’s eyes, he felt so displaced. No more was this raunchy relationship simple. It was now a power struggle. Whose dominance will win. 

Putin caressed Trump’s chest with his tongue, yearning for a more concentrated flavour, moving his oral muscle towards Donald’s unshaven bristle. Vlad tightened the grip of his legs around the rotund waist as he leaned forward to outstretch his now submissive partner’s arms. Held down by the wrists, human handcuffs confined Trump to a new acquiescent, and he was not complaining, he felt empowered to be controlled. He didn’t need to think anymore. If he ever did to begin with. His halitosis breath huffed into the cherub-like face of the man lithely licking his leather pelt, like a hunter after shooting his prey. Bestial. Yet sensual.

“Now for you to give me what I want, slave.” Putin playfully whispered, parting his lips still on the orange skin. Soon the colour will rub off onto his face. Contaminate. Yet, in those few demanding words, Vlad had re-established the entire dynamic of their lustful encounters. There’s a new Daddy on top. And that Daddy wanted his Slave’s juice. 

Trump moaned as his Daddy planted his face in the fungus infested forest, which was located under his arm. All he could do was cry gleefully. Never had he experienced such a delicious sensation. It made his salivate. Reduced to his shameful groans, foaming at the mouth, as if he was a dog with rabies. Before he could climax, Putin pulled away, Master didn’t think that his slave should have the pleasure. Relief is for those with power.

All Trump could hear was the creaking of the floorboards and squeak of leather rubbing together, until the door slammed. Left alone. Alone and powerless. Oh, how the great America has fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that I would continue with this piece of art for the bants.  
> Thank you for reading this disgusting mess!!
> 
> Also blame Yukio Mishima for the whole armpit thing.


	11. Dominant Desires

New Year’s Eve at the White House was rather lonely, Trump pouted alone in his bedroom about the unwanted solitude, further upset by remembering his loss of dominance. He truly was a man suffering great loss. Sticky tears flowed down his gritty, tangerine tinted skin, he felt so alone. Even his mail-order wife couldn't bear to spend great amounts of time in his company, due to his excessive masculinity. BANG BANG CRACKLE POP, fireworks blasted prematurely, something Trump knows a lot about… Yet, all he wanted was to not feel so alone, his Putin wasn’t there, his Master, the one and only person to dominate him, emasculate, Putin was the greatest leader. The supreme leader...

As the rotund President dispiritedly flopped onto his deluxe bed, he inadvertently turned on the 50” television by accidently placing his plump bubble butt on the remote. Further crackles and bangs played in a rhythmic beat, arousing him from his depressed state. A beautifully carved man with lusciously clear skin was projected onto the screen, his fantastically unemotional face was accentuated by his legally regulated haircut. Who was this fantastic beast of a man. His poignant mouth opened to speak, but only a dub played over his voice. 

“The nuclear button is always on my desk,” the speakers echoed, rippling through the bitter orange pigmented President, as if his climax had just been reached. This young sexy animal had murmured the words that Trump only ever dreamed to imagine, the possibility of total world annihilation was a real turn on. Time seemed to stop, noises and colours blurred, Trump felt like a bug caught in an amber fossil, slowing hardening, finally he had found the next gem he wanted to penetrate. 

He glanced at the television in an attempt to locate his potential lover. No, his definite lover, Trump is not the type of man to back down, even being begged repeatedly to stop, no matter the number on accusations, he will not stop. His determination is the greatest that there has ever been. Yet, his hope was so far away, trapped in a foreign land. Trump felt lost once more, but he knew how to be found. To hear the sweet whispers of mass genocide and his dearest dictatorship. He must go to North Korea! Trump knew that was somewhere outside of the United States, damned be the fool who think that he knows not about foreign policy. Trump knew that he is the crown that will make America great again.

Everything has changed. Putin was in the past, Trump knew that his master only ever wanted him when all his other playthings had been used and abused. Even though he enjoyed the monstrous power that the Russian sex machine emitted, Trump knew he couldn’t get complacent. He had to turn off his desire. He needed to, it was the only way to ensure the future greatness of America. All his energies must go into courting and controlling the eastern Dictator. Watch him squirm, mess up his lawful hair, his cheeks glow red, unable to move for weeks, leave him with a limp. Daddy him. Trump reclined on his bed, rubbing himself against the bear fur, humming softly to himself, the thought pleasured him, almost as much as has nimble hands. Almost. 

“I will find you, my delicious ‘rocket man’,” Trump exhaled euphorically to the sounds of new year celebration. BANG BANG CRACKLE POP, the fireworks were unrelenting, like Trump, a force that reckons with the fabric of nature. Ready for explosive destruction, his passion was nuclear. New year. New rules. The President will once again prevail, finding his rightful dominant place in the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this masterpiece https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=on9UFsxdC0Q


	12. Kinky Kim

Trump dripped with anticipation, his impish hands shroud with sweat, crystallising salt, like phony gems and treasures. His rotund build wobbled as he gently rocked back and forth, giddy at the thought of meeting his rocket man, it is a powerful skill to send passionate explosions rippling through the orange man’s body. And it was all new. Never before had Trump gone to the foreign land of Asia, he heard rumours they don’t even speak American! Of course, the President knew this to be false, as American is the official world language, so everyone must speak it. As he adjusted his toupee, footsteps marched uniformly down the stony hallway, chilled with hostility.

“Mr President Sir,” an ‘officer’ addressed Trump, donning his official uniform. The leather choker around his twink-like neck was embellished by the 24k gold chain that hung from it, which connected with the medieval style handcuffs at the end of each extremity, resulting in blood covered wrists and ankles. Trump was entranced by the forced submission of one his favourite officers, sex officers, every movement was limited by his strength, and he loved it. Trump trailed his eyes down the erotic uniform. Leather straps tight around the scrawny chest cavity, showing off the love bites and scratches left by his fans, Trump pondered the identity of the artist who painted the latest bruises. Pence! Of course, he has always had a fetish for those that he hates. Pence’s kink was repressing his homosexuality until it exploded on the chest of some teen boy. Mmmh, this slave in particular wore his leather trousers well… Trump attached his eyes to the perfectly curving buttocks that could be so easily spread before him. Mind wild with fantasies, clearly back to his old dominant self.

“Sir?” the officer pressed, having been waiting for a response from his vegetable tanned leader. He shifted uncomfortably, knowing that the man beside him was penetrating every part of his soul and physicality.

“Oh, yes… Mmmh!” Trump licked his lips, eyes still grazing over the eye-candy he bought, whoever said slavery was bad, he enjoyed the company of his sex slaves so dearly! His biological gears grinded, hardening his manhood to a painful extent, he knew that the boytoy was at his disposal, which only made the possibility so much more alluring. And yet, he restrained himself, walking forward and leaning against the leather-cladded leg, humping it softly, but not giving himself enough friction to reach relief. He was going to save that for Mr Asia…

“Well, I was sent to tell you that your, umm… plane is ready,” the boy spoke meekly, put off by the familiar hardness invading his body. However, at the realisation that he would soon be with his desired, Trump took a step back, but leaned forward, so that the slave could taste the smell of rotten fish from his breath. 

“Plane?!” Trump incredulously shouted, spit and old bits of food, as well as some cold, white, sticky liquid, exited his a wrinkly lips. He frowned, and intensely stared at the impudent slave, until he recognised his own mistake, noted by the sudden widening of eyes and obvious settling of fear on his freckled face.

“So sorry, Mr President Sir, your ‘Sperminator’ flying jet is ready,” at the recognition of his manhood, represented through the phallic nature of aircraft, Trump smiled. Or so, he tilted his lips in an alternative fashion to his usual pout. Close enough to a smile. At least in Trump’s eyes, as the only joy he ever experiences is inflicting pain on others and vice versa. No! No, no, no, Trump thinks to himself, HE MUST BE DOMINANT! He needs to erase his fleeting thoughts of submission, and the best way to do that is assert his power, and go find his rocket man.

Trump trudged down the hallway, prepping himself, ready for the long journey ahead, where sexual anticipation would build, 

“120 lashing to the boy, Pence you can do the punishment this time, it’s obvious you’ve been yearning to away,” Trump shouted back through the hallway, his voice bouncing off the walls, echoing like the haunting memories of trauma he has already inflicted. Trump pleasantly breathed in all the atrocities he has committed, to him ethnic cleansing is the greatest air freshener. And Trump is all about greatness…

***

Trump stepped out of his Sperminator, ready to release his more intimate manhood, gliding his palm in a circular motion to ensure that his member would be of the perfect stature before he showed it off. However, the sight before him was not exactly what he expected. There were endless roads of guards, all holding guns, reading to shoot at any minute, just one small stimulation on the automatic rifle and anything in front of it would be completely blasted. Then covered in a warm sticky liquid, at first feeling almost nice, before the pain sets in and they realise that they have been shot. Trump drooled at the thought, being shot at, at multiple angles, non-stop, how enticing… Maybe he needs to take a trip to Utah when he gets back to the homeland.

This militarised zone would fit perfectly with the wall being built back in America, Trump mused, perhaps this rocket man had already penetrated his mind. Or many, they really are just the perfect fit, well, Trump would only find out once he has tried his key in the rocket’s lock. 

He walked past the everlasting pathway of guards, each one looking him up and down, nodding with approval. No one can refuse Trump’s delicious behind, he trained it like a weapon, each squat a new function. A few of the guards fainted by the aesthetic sight, Trump wondered if they had ever seen such a delightful bottom, but he presumed not, as they were all deadly skinny. Maybe he will take a few back with him, to add to his collection of ‘officers’, one can never have too many playthings!

He carried on walking for what seemed like days, despite it being less than 10 minutes, well that’s what golf buggies are for anyway. As he approached the golden doors, not having even seen the glimpse of a citizen, just how he likes it, the doors opened. He deftly penetrated the building, to promptly see the rocket man, or rather, a glorious painting of him, with weird scribbles underneath. Trump chuckled to himself, ‘they think that this is a language?’ internally mocking the core ideologies of the country he was a guest in. Well, was he a guest, or is this an invasion. A takeover. To dominate the Supreme Leader, make him succumb to Trump’s wicked fantasies. He again glanced at the picture to see a translation in American, it read “Kim Jong-Un”, as if that’s actually American! These Asians need to go to school, Trump thought to himself, aware that America has the greatest education system in the world.

He carried on walking, feeling the pull of desire lead him to his erotic destination. The hallway tasted of hunger and desperation, partially due to widespread starvation, and partially due to the untamed power of Trump’s manhood. Growing by the second. He saw it. He saw the room in which his beloved must be hiding in. Waiting in. Waiting to be emasculated. Destroyed. Whored. All things that Trump could provide. He half-ran to the doorway, restricted by his hardened cock, and lack of physique (except of course his beautifully rounded arse).

Moans rippled through Trump’s ears, the man he has been searching for is behind the tall, mahogany doors, imposing and chilling, turning the orange member stiffer. More groans and screams could be heard through the divide, stirring a more voyeuristic part of Trump, remembering all the peeping he committed when he was younger. Ah, how great that was. The law suits made it all the more thrilling. 

The moans that Trump could hear were becoming more erratic, and it was clear to him that the ‘Kim’ must be polishing his own rifle. Trump knew he could take control, and mark the little man his own, forcing him to endure the role of the submissive partner. His thoughts were becoming so intense that a gooey, wet patch began to leak from his manhood, symbolises a new era of his own masculinity. The orange man unzipped his trousers and took out his erect statue, letting it stand bolding on its on, independent of the body it was attached to. A monster.

Then, the door was open. Trump couldn’t remember opening it but it must have been him, as the rocket man was splayed flat out on the bed, being dirtied by Putin. The beastly Russian showed no mercy. Even after the man below him was all worn out, finished, done, ruined. There is no end to Putin’s ruthlessness, and Trump couldn’t help but melt. He wished that the painful grimace on the cherub like Kim was him, that the newly made scratches and marking were on his orange skin. He wanted to feel again. His manhood growing even greater beneath him, so much so that Trump felt that he was about to be castrated by desire.

At this point Trump realised what he had been trying to deny and repress all this time, that he has always been a submissive bed doll. He was ready to admit it! He never really wanted to own Putin, or be a Daddy. He wanted a Daddy of his own, a Master to control him, and all else was a projection of his innermost desire, and the mixture of being scared of vulnerability. Yet, he didn’t see that his greatest strength was his vulnerability, the pleasure of pain that could now ensue. If only this ‘rocket man’ wasn’t here, he was ruining the sexual reunification of two souls destined for greatness.

Trump knew he must retaliate, and he knew the hardest place to kick was one’s manhood. “My button is bigger than your button, Little Kim,” Trump declared, calling Putin’s attention away from the twink on the bed onto himself. Although, Putin did not stop his intensity, rather he sped up, rampaging inside the ring of the supposed deity-esque man, but his eyes connected win Trump. Trump felt penetrated physically despite no hands even needing to touch him, feeling bare only with the eyes of his Master. He fell to the ground, moaning, unable to stop spurting his manly juices.

Now two were left unable to move, wrecked, moaning, wretches. Putin was master of all. Yet the whines continue, echoing as a trophy of strength, in Putin’s ear.

“No, my button is bigger, I can dominate you anytime, you’re just a worn-out piece of arse, that will be begging for anything he can get. Pathetic,” Kim responded to Trump, albeit a bit too late to be seen as witty. Trump and Kim got catty with insults, revealing their true submissions to Putin, who now has a much more fun game.

Master Putin silenced the room by radiating his masculine energy, “everyone knows, two bottoms don’t make a top!” His smirk could be described as nothing less that erotically malignant...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama!!! WHAT'S GON' HAPPEN NEXT?? WELL, STAY TUNED, MY DUDES, TO FIND OUT...
> 
> Thanks for reading you dirty sinner c;
> 
> Also, if I get assassinated for this make sure my legacy doesn't die


End file.
